


Ended With The Night

by kissesfromkrug



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, Haircuts, Kisses, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-06 11:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11034939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissesfromkrug/pseuds/kissesfromkrug
Summary: In TD Garden, he can't exactly just skate across the ice and kiss someone—not a guy, especially not in front of over 17,000 people, and absolutely not someone on the other team.He doesn't know which order those should go in.





	Ended With The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Not for profit, fictional; feel free to point out any typos. :)
> 
> I'm changing the time format so Pasta's long hair doesn't go away until the end of the 16-17 season...
> 
> ((I still miss it WHOOPS) (Cuts for A Cause is wonderful, but like...preserve the flows))
> 
> Title taken from a song of the same name by Caravan Palace, who by the way is super cool and WOW I just discovered their music and I love it.
> 
> Also, everything after the first part got deleted, so I had to type that again and I was PISSED, capital P, capital everything. So I'm sorry if it's not as good as my first idea, my computer decided to die on me. :(

It's curious how things turn out—[David](http://www.sskoveralltalltid.se/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/SSK-24-679x350.jpg) and [Willy](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/4a/56/c1/4a56c1fd93f509834c7d60c74047a1ab.jpg) just  _happen_  to have two of the longest (and best, Willy always reminds him) haircuts in the league. If they're honest, they probably worship each other's (and their own—they're not _that_ humble) hair just as much as the next fan.

Whenever they have extended time off or are in each other's cities, they automatically gravitate to each other—and even when they're thousands of miles apart, they still manage to stay in better-than-average contact. They text constantly, send each other dumb selfies, and once a week, they (almost) always find time to FaceTime. It's kind of a perfect arrangement for their situation.

Willy's natural first instinct when he sees David is to run over and wrap him in a big hug, maybe leave a kiss or two along his neck. In TD Garden, he can't exactly just skate across the ice and kiss someone—not a guy, especially not in front of over 17,000 people, and _absolutely_ not someone on the other team.

He doesn't know which order those should go in.

They can't ever go out to celebrate with each other after games, since one win will mean the other has lost. Well, they _could_ go out, just one of them would have a slightly shittier time than the other. Only slightly, though. They have ways of making things seem better than they are.

Willy doesn't usually get awfully broody over a loss, so he's easier to cheer up than David. Sometimes they start out at a bar or club, but usually they go straight home, David petting Willy's hair as he lays across David's lap as he rants in accented English about his dumb-ass penalty—honestly, fuck _you_ , ref—or the goal off a bad bounce, or his lack of production on the road, or the failed power play that's slipping down in ranking as of late.

Willy takes it all in stride, finds the things David and his teammates did  _right_ —although sometimes, he struggles to find the words. Every team has that day where absolutely nothing goes right—guys aren't meshing like usual, the goaltender's making sloppy plays, the forwards can hardly break the opposing blue line, they're killing penalties more than they're having 5-on-5 time, while their power play is nonexistent—and that's when they even get chances. Even on those days, Willy will, by the end of the night, have been able to make David laugh at least twice.

Sometimes when the Bruins lose, however, David will make himself as small as possible, wanting nothing more than to disappear into thin air. Instead, he'll curl up at Willy's side on the guest bed and let him run his fingers through David's long, sometimes still-wet hair.

Comfort cuddles, Willy likes to call them. It was something they started over in Sweden, and every so often, when the Bruins play the Maple Leafs, they fall back into a familiar routine that Willy might miss a little too much. Phone calls just aren't the same.

"I  _suck_  today," David complains again, on his back in the center of the bed with his head on Willy's stomach. A hand strokes through David's freshly washed hair, fingernails occasionally scraping lightly against his scalp.

"You got two goals."

"We lost."

"I was there." David twists his neck to look up at him.

"You got hatty  _and_ won," he reminds Willy.

"Again, I was there. Stop telling me what I already know. Talk about something else." David's been ranting about the game for over an hour, and although Willy loves him to death, he doesn't want David to overthink it. It's time to move on.

"I like it," David says, turning on his side and sliding a hand up Willy's jaw to his hair. "Nice and soft."

"Unlike you," Willy replies, and David tugs a little.

"Shut up." Willy presses a soft kiss to David's forehead, smiling at him warmly. David grins back, all teeth, and Willy's glad David's only got his two chipped front ones instead of fake ones. Makes it easier to kiss—and it's an adorable look, especially for a hockey player.

Willy sits up, stretching, and David makes a noise of disapproval until he straddles David and leans down to kiss him. David opens easily for Willy's tongue, fingers again finding their home in his blond locks. They're still a bit damp from his post-game shower, for some reason, but David's only focusing on the generic smell of soap mixed with the ever-present Willy smell, a cross between spearmint gum, a sweaty locker-room, and chocolate chips. To be honest, it doesn't sound good, but to David, it's the best thing in the world.

He doesn't quite know how he identified the specific scents with just one inhale, but every time afterwards that he's buried his face in Willy's shirt or hair, there's that familiar mix that comforts him and drives him wild all at once.

He tilts his head up and fits his lips seamlessly to Willy's, a hand sliding down David's chest and untucking his dress shirt. His knees are firmly planted on either side of David's slim hips, effectively trapping him under Willy's sturdy, muscular body. David can't get the loss out of his head, knowing deep down that it most certainly wasn't his fault, but unable to convince his brain that he's not the only one responsible for his team's efforts.

He lets Willy unbutton his shirt, one hand clamped on the back of Willy's neck with the other weaving through his hair with a mind of its own. "I want—" David cuts himself off, breathing hard from the kiss.

"What, babe?"

"Just—" Willy stares down at him with an intense gaze that makes shivers roll up and down his spine. "Gentle? Please?"

"Anything for you, David, any way you want," he whispers back, leaning down for another deep kiss. 

He takes David apart slowly, gently, perfectly, just as if it were their first times—or David were made of glass. Regardless, it's exactly what David wanted: what he needed.

• • •

"Don't cut hair," David says firmly, and Willy laughs. 

"Not until you get here."

"No! Not then, either. Never cut it." Willy runs a hand through it and leans back to look at the ceiling.

"How many days until our next game?" He doesn't even  _need_ to ask. 29. It's 29 days. He's only mildly ashamed to say that he crosses off the days on his little calendar in his bedroom.

"Um—I check." There's a rustling sound in the background, and he can hear David softly counting in Czech. "Ah!  _Dvacet devět dní_ —I-I mean—"

"29?" David seems surprised when he asks,

"You understand me? Learn Czech already?" Willy smiles to himself.  _No, but good idea..._

"No, I...I count down too. On my calendar."

" _Miluji tě, miláčku_ ," David coos with a smile in his voice, and okay, Willy actually  _does_ know what that means.

"I love you too, baby." Willy pauses as David giggles softly, his own mouth turning up as he smiles like an idiot to the empty room. Well, not like an idiot, more like a...like a dumb boy in love with his best friend. "I miss you."

"Just see you," David laughs, the low undercurrent in his voice sending shivers down Willy's bent spine.

"Still. We can never be together too long," Willy replies, pulling a knee up to his chest. David sighs, saying,

"Always miss you too, William. Not see you enough." His voice is thick with affection and longing, and Willy still can't stop smiling.

"I wish we were on the same team."

"Call manager, say you want trade," David says, only half-joking, and Willy wishes with all his heart he could say yes to that idea.

"David, I—" He swallows hard. "I'm glad you want to do this with me, babe." They've always been the type for cute names, but never in front of anyone. Willy would never admit that he gets off on David calling him his pretty boy.

"This?" David's voice deepens as his tone turns serious.

"This long-distance...thing we do," Willy clarifies, and there's a long silence on the other end. "I love you so so  _so_ much, and I couldn't do it without you."

"Will see you soon," David assures him firmly. "Love you more,  _miláčku._ " Sweetheart. He'll always be David's sweetheart.

• • •

"How many days until March 20th?" Willy asks Mo, who's lifting weights alongside him. He sets them down and plants his hands on his hips as Mo answers,

"What? Why?" Willy shrugs. "Who we playing that day?"

"No one important," he rushes out, trying for casual and missing by three miles as he sits on a bench and wipes his forehead with a towel. Mo smirks.

"No?" He sets his weights on the rack and plops down next to Willy.

"Just wondering."

"I think you know." Mo stares at him until he finally gives in—it's not like Mo doesn't know who they're playing, why can't he just say it? "Who we playing, again?"

"The Bruins," Willy mumbles, eyes on his feet.

"You excited to see your boyfriend?" Mo prods gently, taking the water bottle out of Willy's hands that Willy hadn't noticed he'd grabbed.

"He's not my—"

"Oh, bullshit, you couldn't convince a _rock_ that you two aren't desperately in love." Willy freezes as fingers habitually comb through his hair. In love? He thought Mo was going more along the lines of 'it's obvious you've been boning him'—but this? He never thought he'd get, well, _accused_  of being in love. 

He thinks of blowing it off, saying that they're just really good friends. Mo wouldn't  _really_ know, would he? And besides, it's none of his business.

"How'd you know?" Is what comes out of his mouth instead.  _Fuck fuck fuck._ "I mean—" He's beyond glad that his workout already turned his face red; it'd be just as red from embarrassment if he'd only been sitting on the bench for an hour.

"How'd I  _know_?" Willy purses his lips as Mo continues, "I mean, it's not like you talk nonstop about David and Boston and how far you guys are away from each other or anything. You know?" He's grinning, and Willy wants to smack it right off his face, except for the fact that he might be a tiny bit right. "'David said he likes potato chips more than me, Boston won yesterday even though he got a penalty, I wish we were on the same team, David misses the shit out of me, I think David wants to lick—'"

"Shut up," Willy says, the flush spreading down his neck and chest. "I don't say that."

"You _never_ stop talking about him, bud, it's sickeningly adorable."

" _I'm_ adorable? You should see David when—" Willy says without thinking, awkwardly cutting himself off as he thinks, _that just proved his_ point _, you fucking dumb-ass._  Mo answers almost immediately,

"See, you totally do—not to mention your cutesy posts on Instagram—"

"You know what that is?" Willy interrupts with a laugh.

"—how obsessed you are with each other with your secretive, inside-joke captions that only you two understand." Willy laughs harder.

"What the hell are you talking about? We don't post anything about inside jokes."

"Don't tell me there wasn't one about—"

"And we're not _that_  obsessed—"

"Don't even _tell_ me you're not obsessed with each other, anything other than that is a lie," Mo interrupts, and damn, hardly anyone can finish a sentence in this conversation. "And if you try to deny your adorableness, then that's a lie too, 'cause—"

"You jealous of us or something?" Willy asks, leaning back on the bench, shaking off Mo's arm.

"What if I am?"

"Lame-o."

"No shame in looking."

"You looking at me?" Willy asks with an amused snort. "Or you think my boyfriend's hot? 'Cause he is, damn right, but he's not up for grabs." Well. He can't lie about it anymore.

"Nah, just wish I had someone who looked at me like he looked at you when you scored a hatty against his own damn team." And  _shit_ , Willy hadn't noticed, high on the feeling as he screamed and zoomed past his bench, feeling like he could fly. He looked over to David a few minutes later, but his head was ducked as his coach shouted at him and his line-mates. 

Damn, he was blind.

"You gonna shut up about it any time soon?" Willy asks defensively, snatching the water bottle back and spraying some in the direction of his mouth.

"Hey, bud, you guys have it real good," Mo says easily. "Not trying to make you weird about it or anything, it's totally cool."

"When we see each other five times a year, max?" Willy presses, but before Mo can answer, he's interrupted—again. 

"Is Dad confused about technology again?" Gards calls from the pull-up bar, dropping down and rubbing the side of his neck.

"No, I'm just telling Willy how ob—"

"Yeah, he thinks he knows it all," Willy says over Mo.

"Do you even  _know_ how dangerous the internet can be these days?" Mo starts, "All these strangers, these creepy people trying to find you and shit—" He shudders exaggeratedly. "I don't want someone showing up at my house uninvited."

"I never had a problem with talking to strangers on the dangerous internet," Gards says with a smirk. Morgan bites his lip and presses his lips together in a hard line, and  _oh_.

"All this communication, you can find anyone—and anyone can find you!"

"What if I want people to find me?"

"You want people showing up to mug you?"

"I think you're a little behind on the times on how it works," Gards shoots back. Willy zones out of their bantering, thinking about how communication has expanded so much from when his father was in the league. He can call or Skype David whenever he has time, whether he wants a face to match his fantasies or a shoulder to cry on or a partner to joke with. He sighs involuntarily.

"Thinking about your boy again, eh?" Mo says, nudging Willy with an elbow to his side.

"No—"

"Yes," Gards corrects with a knowing grin.

"Shut up."

"Hey, you're adorable," Mo says again, lightly punching Willy's shoulder and standing up again. "He's just jealous too."

"I am  _not_ , Dad, don't put words in my mouth."

"Jealous." Willy just laughs as they argue back and forth, almost seeming like an old married couple themselves. Hm.

• • •

"I'm waiting outside, where are you?" Willy says into the phone, tapping his foot against the floor.

"Waiting for bag—oh, I got it." There's a crash, and Willy winces. "Fine, we are fine, it all good."

"Hurry  _up_ , oh my god." He squeezes the steering wheel twice, and David's calm voice says in his ear,

"One minute, we just wait for Franky and Torey."

"I don't care about them, I just wanna see you."

"One minute," David repeats with a low chuckle, hanging up and leaving Willy drumming his fingers impatiently on the leather. A big black coach bus pulls up in the lane next to him, and he stares at it curiously as he waits, counting up and down to and from 10.

"William!" A knock on the passenger window startles him, and David's eager face stares at him from the other side of the glass. Willy makes a noise between a squeak and a shout and flings himself out of the vehicle, wrapping David in a hug that squeezes the breath out of him. One hand reaches up to tangle in David's thankfully long flow-hair, and he feels David gripping the back of his neck.

"Shit, I missed you, babe," he murmurs in David's ear, remembering just in time that they were in public before he dove in for a kiss. 

"Miss you so much too," David gets out, pulling back to look at Willy with a huge smile stretching across his face. Willy's eyes are drawn to his adorably chipped teeth, and David licks his lips slowly.

"I, uh—" Willy steps back and grabs David's suitcase as one of his teammates calls,

"Hey, Pasta, you coming with us?"

"I go with William for now," he answers. "Is okay?" His teammate—Krug—raises an eyebrow.

"I'll tell coach. Bring him back in time for dinner at 7, okay?" He directs the question towards Willy, who turns around and nods eagerly. 

"Yeah, sure, I got it." Krug grins knowingly and follows his team onto the big black bus. Willy shuts the rear door after tossing David's bags in, and once they're buckled and the radio is turned up they look at each other.

"Glad you're here, babe," Willy says honestly, and he's pretty damn sure that David's flush isn't because of the bitter Toronto wind. David reaches over and laces his fingers with Willy's, their hands resting on the center console. Willy squeezes and presses down on the gas pedal, turning his focus back to the road ahead. "Where to first?" David smirks, and it's Willy's turn to blush.

"Home," he murmurs darkly. Willy may or may not speed a little, David's deft fingers moving up to weave through his hair, tugging on the roots just a bit more than gently.

• • •

"I have go," David mumbles as Willy catches up to him in the hallway. 

"I just wanted to say that you-you had a good game."

"Minus two."

"Plus-minus is bullshit—and besides, you had five shots."

"So did Marshy, and he score." David sighs as he continues, "Plus-minus has mean something, William."

"Not much."

"You win and have plus two and point and three shots and—"

"Shut up," Willy interrupts, anger beginning to bubble in his chest as they open the door to the parking lot. "You can't have a good game every day, David, you  _know_ that—"

"Today is important!" David exclaims, wide-eyed as he turns to Willy. "Is-is—we have play good against you!"

"Why? Why me? Why us specifically?" Willy challenges. "You think you have to impress me every time we step out on the ice against each other? David, we played together for almost two  _years_ —we had such good chemistry, it's—it was unbelievable! You can't impress me any more than you already have!"

"But I have to! Have to play good for you!" David insists, clenching a fist. " _Have_ to!"

"You don't need to be the best player on the ice for me to love you," Willy says, and David's mouth snaps shut. "I'm in love with you whether you're on the first line and putting up 80 points a year and leading your team to the post-season, or you're a healthy scratch all the time and on the 4th line and score five points a season! I fell in love with your hockey before I truly loved you, but now—now, your hockey doesn't matter. I just want  _you_."

"But...I am nothing without hockey." David stares at his feet, and Willy sighs.

"I know, but...if you had me, would that be enough?" David bites his upper lip, taking a step closer with his eyes still cast downward. "If hockey wasn't an option, then...would you still need me?" Willy didn't anticipate getting into a deep heart-to-heart with David in a chilly parking lot, but here they are.

Here they are.

"Anything for you," David breathes. "Love hockey, but...cannot live without you." He finally glances up at Willy's solemn face, a smile slowly replacing the frown as he says loudly, "I love you, William. More than anything." He drops his bag and flings his arms around Willy, face in his shoulder and hands in his hair.

" _Miluji tě_ ," Willy says slowly, hoping that his practice with pronunciation paid off. " _Miluji tě, David._ " David doesn't say a word, pressing kisses along the strip of skin between his collar and hairline. "I love you, baby."

• • •

"Ta-da!" David exclaims, grabbing Willy's shoulders and shaking him from where he's slouched back on the living room chair.

"What were you  _doing_?" He mumbles blearily, rubbing his face with one hand as he squints and looks back. "It's like, 2 am."

"New hair, you like?" David is so eager to please, but right now—Willy is far from pleased. 

"What the fuck?" His broken smile dims a bit, a hand self-consciously running through his new [cut](http://media.gettyimages.com/photos/david-pastrnak-of-the-boston-bruins-poses-for-pictures-at-the-nhl-picture-id493361368). "You go out for drinks— _I'm_ the one coming home early, by the way, and _we_  won—and you decide to go and do  _this_?"

"Is not good?" David asks worriedly. "Not like?"

" _No_!" Willy's fully awake as he shakily stands up to stare at David with wide, surprised blue eyes. "We—I—you—"

"I am sorry."

"We promised we wouldn't!" Willy exclaims, and okay, it's a little much to get worked up over a haircut, but—they'd  _promised—_ or, at least,  _Willy_ had promised never to cut his hair without telling David first. Besides, 2:19 am is a perfect time for weird and irrational arguments.

"I not—" David gulps, hand in his hair again. "Not think you mind. Think you like something new?" And alright, you can't grow hair out  _forever_ , but Willy—well, he wanted to hold on to their past a little longer.

"I mean—" Willy licks his lips and looks David over, still in his game-day dress shirt and slacks. "Where's your, uh..." He gestures to David's neck, where he's lost his tie, jacket probably hung up somewhere by the door.

"Hotel," he clarifies, coming around the other side of the chair and burrowing his face into Willy's white dress shirt that he has yet to change out of. "Very sorry about hair, William, I not know—"

"Hey, it's okay, I freaked out," Willy interjects with a sigh, setting his chin on David's shoulder. "I mean, you could've told me you were gonna change, like, everything."

"Not change everything. Just change style. Will grow again, maybe." Willy pulls back, reaching out hesitantly to stroke David's hair. Among anyone else it would be weird, but it's just a part of life for them. 

"I guess it's okay," Willy ventures, and David's smile returns, even bigger than before. He leans forward the few inches between them and firmly presses a kiss to Willy's slightly parted lips. An arm slides around David's back, and soon enough, Willy's got David backing up towards his bedroom, hands under each other's shirts and belts undone.

With red lips and golden hair all a mess, David finally settles himself on Willy's hips, head tilted back as he grinds down. Willy presses fingertip-shaped bruises into David's hips, wishing he could lace his fingers through David's admittedly gorgeous hair. There's not really anything he could do to it that would look bad—as long as they don't consider mohawks. He wonders how he got from nearly yelling in the living room to fucking in his bed.

Hey, if they can get over a random 2 am haircut this easily, they can do anything.

**Author's Note:**

> I need pro opinions on this, here — is it spelled Willie or Willy? ie or y???
> 
>  
> 
> Miluji tě, miláčku - I love you, sweetheart
> 
> Dvacet devět dní - twenty nine days
> 
> And YES, 2 am is a perfectly normal time to get a hair cut, don't question it - Toronto is a mystical place *winks aggressively*
> 
> Still editing. :)


End file.
